


Seduced - A Randall Brown / Reader fic

by Samstown4077



Series: You/real person - You/fictional character [3]
Category: The Hour
Genre: ;), F/M, Fluff, I wouldn't say this is smut, One Shot, Romance, Seducing, because Randall never would do that, damn long one shot, m-rated, reader meets randall brown, sensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4013299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Samstown4077
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You / The Reader meets Randall Brown at a dinner party, after an intern ship at The Hour. One thing leads to another and then you find yourself in Randall's hotel room. M-rated, nothing to graphical but very detailed and long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had this headcanon of Randall Brown being actually a man who knows how to seduce a woman, and so I came up with this one shot (after also one of my followers asked me to write it) and what was planned for 3000 words is now 7,5k long and I don't know how this could went so out of hand. Also I really like it and to recite misswinterseat; Randall is maybe a loner but not a monk, and I can imagine him very well like this. Enjoy! Please note, this is mostly "between the sheets" so don't read if you don't like, also I wrote it fittingly for the character, so it is totally different to the stuff I wrote for the Cardinal (my readers will know).

You been there not longer than two and a half weeks. A little internship, you couldn't resist to do, because it was the BBC and The Hour and one doesn't refuse the offer to help out at The Hour. The most important 60 minutes of the week.

You help sorting things, little organisations here and there. You are just a low light, but you enjoy seeing the people at work. It's the spirit and the recklessness they chose topics and bring onto the screen.

As it is only a short time you don't befriend many people. They’re all polite to you and answer all of your eager questions, but you spend your breaks mostly alone. You always need a bit till you have integrated, and also you don't mind. So it surprises you, that on your last day you've been offered to come to a little conference with a little dinner party at the end of the day. They can need every helping hand and you say yes, and so it is a win win situation for everyone.

The conference happens to be on the other side of town, and they book hotel rooms for everyone, and your eyes go wide when you see your luxury hotel room, you have not to share with anybody. Sadly, most of the time you will be at the conference and later at the dinner party, nevertheless it's great. A little group of people you worked with are ‘celebrating’ your leave at the end of the conference, before everyone is heading to change clothes. It's a nice gesture, nothing big. Bel Rowley says a few words, and Freddie and Hector are there too, and a few others. You can see Randall Brown in the distance, talking to one of the department managers of the BBC.

You haven't seen him often, maybe two or three times in a conference you was allowed to witness, as you say it in your gratefulness.

He is unmissable, always in a sharp suit, sometimes with a vest. You like men in suits, you have a soft spot for it. Men who dress up in suits, so you think, know what they want. They are aware of themselves. You not simply can buy a suit and you look good in it. It’s a secret and an accomplishment, not all can manage. There is a difference of a suit wearing a man or a man wearing a suit. You have an eye for it, and can spot the difference at once.

Randall Brown is definitely a man wearing a suit, and presenting himself in a sophisticated manner that you think Hector - the news speaker - could still learn something there. And lets not forget the glasses he wears.

You know he is not a loud person, the times you saw him in action he was always calm, direct, sharp and stern, but there was a preciseness in the way of his, that you had the utmost respect for him.

More there isn't in the moment. And you forget about him the moment you turn around, to shake hands, and walk back to your room, to change like the others.

An hour later people slowly come back from their rooms, all in fancy dresses and suits or dinner jackets. You are usually not one for cocktail dresses, but you had decided to go for one, bought it extra for it, dark blue, because it is your favourite colour and it was surprisingly smooth around your body. Showing enough curves and skin without making you feel too vulnerable. Perfect length, nice embroidery and the price was fine too, so you bought it and promised to wear it with all the confidence you had in yourself. Of course, the moment you enter the room, you feel the confidence crawl back to your room, but you spot Freddie and he does what a gentleman does, he compliments you on your dress, and you can see he means it.

“Grab a drink,” he smiles. “Or some food, it’s all for free.”

You thank him and make your way over to the buffet, and go for some little appetizers. You can’t drink alcohol without having something in your stomach, that would never end well.

The food is good, people are relaxed and happy that the hard work day is over and now a little amusement can start. You do some small talk with a few people you know, but mostly you just stand by and listen to the stories. You really have to work on your social skills, you think.

Almost two hours have past, and you decide to swap apple juice for a real drink before you will probably leave. You can take one now, and when you approach the bar, there is Hector, with an ambiguous smile on his lips. You have divisive feelings for him. He is a brilliant news speaker, and journalist, but since the first day, he looks at you as if you were something else as a new colleague. Some kind of prey maybe. You can’t be sure. You only know, that in the beginning he at least tried to look into your face, and right now, his eyes are nowhere near by your face and he doesn’t even hides it.

“Drink for the lady?” he asks, already turning around to the barkeeper. And you are not the person who refuses then.

“Martini, red, please,” you say and earn a cocked eyebrow.

“You don’t look like a Martini girl to me,” he says, smirking and you already try to come up for an excuse to leave him. Also it’s your last day, you should try to give a damn.

“That’s maybe because I am not a girl, Mister Madden,” you step forward and take the drink, the barkeeper places onto the bar, because you don’t want Hector to even touch your drink.

“Hector, please,” he steps up to you, and it is clear, this will be a hard case of ‘ _sorry not interested’_. “So did you enjoy your stay at The Hour?”

“Yes, I did,” you answer, nicely, hoping he might has get it, and now only wants to make some nice small talk, but the next he says, convinces you otherwise.

“So, what are you doing afterwards?” he nibs grinning from his whiskey, you are sure it is already his fourth or fifth.

You see through his intentions, “Going to my room, packing, taking a shower and then going to bed.” It’s almost a bit snappy, but you don’t care. You are now in the mood where you only wait for a saucy comment, so you can empty your glass over his head.

His eyes travel down your dress, and right now when you want to tell him to get lost, another voice reaches between you and Madden.

“Mister Madden, I think its enough,” it’s Randall Brown, showing up out of nowhere. “ _You_ had enough,” he takes the drink from his hands. “I think it’s time to leave, and don’t forget to call your wife from your hotel room. That’s what good husbands do, don’t they?”

Hector clenches his jaw, angrily, but he knows he can’t say much against Randall, as he is his boss.

“Yes,” is the only thing he says, and then strolls away.

You both watch him walk away for a bit, when you turn toward him. There you notice his suit, dark blue, like your dress, with a vest and a dark red tie. A white pocket square, lined perfectly up with the pocket. The man looks quite dashing and you are sure he let makes his suits by a tailor. “Thank you.”

He smirks, and places Hector’s glass onto the bar, so he has one hand free, while he holds a glass with a clear liquid and some lemons in his other, “Not for that. I am sure, you could have dealt with him yourself. I just thought, the Martini is too good and such a waste to land in Mister Madden’s face.”

It makes you chuckle, and you finally manage to drink from your Martini, “I didn’t know he is married.”

“He hides it, for obvious reasons,” Randall shoves one hand into his pocket, turning more toward you. “He usually tries to get to our internships, when you know what I mean. Nothing I can hinder, but I tend to have an eye on him.”

You grasp what Randall wants to say between the words. If Hector wouldn’t be the famous news man he is, Randall would have fired him long ago, but so, he has to live with his capers.

“He wouldn’t have come far with me,” you tilt your head a bit, and don’t know why you tell him this. Maybe because it’s the longest conversation you had all day with someone without mentioning the weather. “He is everything but my type. Man like Mister Madden, are act like boys, and that’s kind of revolting, don’t you think?”

You can feel Randall Brown’s eyes on you, but you only nib from your drink and do as if you glance around the room. He probably can look through you, it only makes you smile.

“And what is your type, then?” the questions brings your attention back to him like the striking of a lightning. That is a question you haven’t thought he was capable of saying and the way you react, makes him look at you with mischief in his eyes. You hesitate for a moment, while your eyes flicker over his suit and then say out of nowhere, “Men in dark blue suits, actually.”

You don’t even know why you said it and what possessed you. It’s not the alcohol, you haven’t even drank half the glass. For a moment you regret it, you feel your cheeks going red, telling you how dare you are, flirting with a man who could be someone's father. Also, hasn’t he started, or did you misinterpret something? Then you notice the twitch at the corner of his mouth, and you can’t push the idea away that he is interested - in you.

But he wouldn’t be Randall Brown, when he wouldn’t do what he does next, he touches his tie, gives you a polite nod, and then excuses himself off to join one of the BBC bosses at the other side of the room.

You nod too, “Mister Brown,” and want to slap yourself, because it is obvious, that you made a mistake and has offended the Head of News. Stupid. Great deal.

Social skills, you’re sure there is a class to attend to somewhere. There is nothing else you can do, as to brush it off. It’s your last day, you never will see the man again, and so what does it matter. It’s late already and you’ve been here now for a bit more than two hours and that’s the limit you have set yourself before going back to your room. You haven’t lied to Hector about packing, aside you will take a bath and not only a shower, so you make one last round, saying good night here and there, and twenty minutes later you stand in front of the lift and press the button.

Glancing up at the readout you wait patiently for the thing to come down from the top floor, when you sense somebody is joining you at your side.

It’s more than a surprise to you, when you hear Randall Brown asking you, “Already leaving us?”

The moment you turn your head, the doors opens with a “ding”. For whatever reason you feel caught. You haven’t said goodbye to him, but you was not very eager, after the little faux pas you made earlier and he seemed to be in a deep conversation anyway.

“Yes, I think it’s time,” you say. “I am no one for dinner parties.” The door is about to close again, so you quickly put your hand between it and the door goes open again with a jolt. You both lock eyes, and you don’t know if he will return to the party, or wants to leave too, and it makes you feel awkward and it only eases away, when he holds out his hand into the empty room, to offer you the first move.

“Yes, they are quite overrated,” he follows you into the metal cabin. “The only good dinner party is the one I don’t have to go to,” he smiles at you, not making the intention to press a button. The door closes again.

“So you are stealing yourself away, too,” you lean against the wooden handle that goes around the whole cabin. “For a moment I thought you were checking on me.”

“Maybe I do,” he stays across from you, one hand in his pockets, the other checking the fit of his tie.

“Why would you do that?”

“I am your boss, ain’t I?” he says it with a smirk, knowing he is incorrect. He is testing you, teasing you. He has no intentions yet, it’s only interest, that can die out with a wrong word or a wrong gesture. It’s one of these famous moments. Will the glimmer spark or not.

“Mh,” you smirk, considering your options for a few seconds, and then step up to him, reaching for his wrist, the left one, with an expensive watch on it. White clock-face, black leather band. Hector wears only a golden Rolex, Randall wears a statement. “No more, since five o’clock this afternoon.”

“Then,” he turns around his arm, catching your wrist with his warm fingers. They’re not entangle around your arm, it’s more a carrying of your hand. A holding, an offer, you can refuse any time, “my intentions must be of other nature.”

Randall Brown is a loner, you have heard that and sensed it the day, you have stepped inside the BBC building. It doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to treat a woman. Especially it doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to flirt and to make a move. He was not Hector, but he also was not a monk.

His touch makes you swallow, and you feel your hand turn around, your fingertips, touching part of his suit, part of his watch and part of his skin. His grip is loose but you can feel his skin on yours while turning your hand. It sends a chill down your spine. Your hand slides over his, your fingertips trail over his open palm, and then it drops down. Your eyes flicker over to the control panel, aside of him. Till now, none of you has pressed a button yet. He sees it and asks, “Which floor?”

“I am on 7,” you answer, and you hope desperately his room will be on a floor underneath.

But it isn’t so, “I am on 12.”

He presses the button for 7 and 12, and you don’t know how to take it. Instead of saying something you watch the buttons light up one after another, and it only takes half a minute when the lift stops on the floor of number 7 and the door goes open. ‘Ding’.

You don’t move, neither does he comment it, he only looks at you. His eyes have a touch of a sparkle, but you have trouble reading in them. They are all mysterious behind those thick black frames of his glasses. You never thought someone could wear such glasses with such class. There are very in fashion these days, but you guess he had his long before they went fancy. It suits him, not only because it suits the journalist that he is. It’s the perfect finish, of the package that shows up every morning, in a fine suit, correct bound tie and a haircut, people could cut their hands on.

Right now you only think, you want to take those glasses and shove them into his hair only to see how he would react to it.

The door closes again and the cabin goes further up. Twenty seconds go by and the door goes open on the 12th floor. Randall purses his lips and breathes in as if he has all the time in the world. He seems calm, at ease and you are nervous and your heart races and you think, that it is his turn now, and it makes you nervous that the door will close any second again and then what?

Your ears get all red and for a moment you think, he must see how you almost panic, as if when the door closes, the lift will fall down and crash. Then you realize, you don’t move, there is no fumbling with your hands, you must appear totally calm to him. And that’s maybe it, you both seem to be cool and at ease, but there is a big chance you both already burn up on the inside.

The doors close again, but nothing moves, and that’s when you let go of a breath you held quite a while, “So, we can’t ride the lift all night,” you suddenly say. You have more guts in you and the ability to talk between the lines as you ever have thought.

“No,” his hand finds the way out of his pocket again. For a blink you see he is not sure, he is afraid as you that you will decline the offer, that he has misunderstood something.

He is not Hector, not so blunt. “Fancy a drink? Scotch, 12 years old,” to underline his offer he presses the button with the number 12 again, and the door goes open and he steps between the light barrier, half turned to you, waiting.

Your tongue wets your lips, when you smile at him, “Yes, I’d like that.” As answer he offers you his arm and you take it, letting him lead you to his room, somewhere in the middle of the floor. Your hand spans around his wrist, and two fingers land inside his palm and you can feel two fingers of his making little circles over them.

The heart inside your chest is beating so loud you are sure he can hear it. Randall Brown is about to take you to his room and aside all the nervousness you feel happy and warm and his odour - a mix of aftershave and personal scent - attracts you in a way, you never could have believed it.

At the door, he needs to let go of you, to get his keys out of his pocket. Opening the door he, pushes it open, flicks on a small light and offers you to go inside. You do, it’s a similar room to yours, maybe a bit bigger - he is the head of news, though. The door goes close, the light from the floor is shut out and now there is only the faint light in the bedroom. You stand in the little floor, aside you is the bathroom, and Randall behind you, still standing by the door, one hand on the doorknob. You can hear him locking it.

The tension in the room is torturing you, so you swirl around, “Do you mind when I take off my shoes, they are actually killing me.”

It makes him laugh, “I wouldn’t want that. It would be hard to explain the hotel manager how you ended up in my room - dead.” The teasing pause he makes, you are well aware off it.

Quickly you take the shoes off, and kick them aside the door, now you are way smaller as him, while Randall takes off his jacket. He walks past you and hangs it on a hanger at the mirror in the room by the bed. When he is finished you still stand by the entrance, looking at him, taking him in. The vest that fits perfectly around his lean figure and you catch yourself imagining how you slowly open up those buttons. You get lost in it, and know you must look like it, but Randall only smiles at you, while he comes back, slowly, doing the same as you. Taking you in, his eyes roaming over your shoulders, down your chest, to the edge of the skirt of your dress. It feels good, it feels warm, it gives you the feeling he adores you in that dress and nothing else. You only realize he is close to you, when he raises his arm and shoves a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips trace along your skin, to the side of your neck and you find yourself going onto tip toes, and leaning in, one hand reaching for his cheek.

“You are quite a beautiful woman, I hope you know that,” he whispers, lingering by your lips, stepping one last step closer and now you are almost cornered by the door.

“You are quite handsome yourself,” you breathe, that chin of yours slightly lifting to indicate what you want, but Randall Brown is not a man of rash decisions, not since he has left behind his thirties.

“You can go anytime,” you feel the fingertips of his left on your upper thigh, a gentle, careful touch, along the edge of the fabric. “You know that.”

Your thumb strokes over his cheek, your fingers trail along the side of his specs, to his ear. He is warm and his hair feels soft aside the gel he has in it, his lips not far away from yours, “It’s nothing I want to do.”

And with that he leans down and covers his lips with yours. Cups your upper lip with a gentle sucking and an almost inaudible hum of his. His hand by your neck embraces the back of your head, pulling you into his body, and to show him you want nothing else, your arms come around his neck, your fingers entangle in his hair, your mouth suckling at his lower lip.

The hand by your thighs wanders upwards to your hip, to the small of your back, his fingers sprawling over your back, touching your skin, stroking your spine.

You feel his mouth open up slightly, his tongue brushing over your lips, and you open your mouth for him, peaking out your tongue and meet his and you both hum over the exciting feeling into the mouth of the other.

Randall Brown tastes deliciously fresh after peppermint. He hadn’t had a drink, only water with mint and ice, you figure. His tongue is teasing you, luring you, making you want more, licking over your lips, tasting the scent of the one Martini you had and his kisses make you press yourself against him. That’s how you tell him, that he is a fine kisser. Skilful, eager but not needy.

When the air runs out in your lungs, you break away with a gasp, but keep your embrace, both your eyes seem to glow in the dark. His pupils are blown, and are filled with lust and want for more.

“Mister Bro-”

“-Randall,” he smirks, his fingers drawing little lines on your skin.

“Randall,” you say, the first time and you need to get used to it. “I am sure you have a bed, don’t you?”

You can see he finds it attractive how you blush over your own words, over the almost blunt suggestion not to keep it up here in the narrow floor, “There is a pretty good chance, yes.”

He pulls you into another kiss, while whirling you around with him in his arms, and guides you under kisses to the bedroom, to the edge of the bed.

And then you do, what you have dreamed off earlier, you start to unbutton his vest and he doesn’t interfere, even helps you, and shoves down the silk from his body, to throw it over a armchair. He makes quick work with his tie and the next thing you want to do is get rid of his shirt, but there he stops you with a kiss, and a smirk, “Wait. I…,” he stumbles over his words, the first time at this evening. “Let me undress you.”

You nod, and turn around, presenting him your zipper, and you can feel his hands, trail over the fabric from your waist slowly up your spine. Slowly he pulls down the zipper with one hand, following the movement with the other, over your naked skin. It makes you hum and your head drops forward. It’s a long zipper and it ends, in the half top of your bottom, revealing your black panties. There he realizes, you are not wearing a bra, you note that because his fingers trail along the line, where your bra should be at your back. It was indeed a clever dress you bought, and you catch a surprised expression when you glance over your shoulders meeting Randall’s eyes. It clearly has brought him out of his concept, and you decide to help him, with shoving down one side of the dress over your shoulders.

He covers your shoulder instantly with his mouth, kissing it, gently biting you, while his hands shove down the other side, and so the dress falls down to the floor, and there you stand with nothing but some delicate black knickers.

You shudder, when he steps closer, something hard pressing against your bottom. His belt or … It must be his belt because it is cold and you jump slightly.

“I am sorry,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, kissing you there all sensual, licking and breathing over it, that it sends goosebumps over your neck. Then he undoes his belt, and it joins the vest on the armchair.

Now you test your own bravery and step back against him, and god yes, he is aroused, and as if he wants to reassure you that you are the reason, he grabs you gently by your hips and presses you against his middle. He can’t hold back a groan. You can’t hold back anymore, you need to turn around, and while he places soft kisses on your shoulders you slowly shift around in his arms, till you face him. His mouth slightly open, his breath ragged, and probably desperately telling himself to keep his eyes at your face. It makes you smile.

“It’s okay,” you step back, till you bump against the edge of the bed, and when his view falls down to your chest, over your breasts, down your stomach and back, you see him swallow hard. Randall is not a man who collects woman, and that’s why he is every time anew amazed over the beauty he discovers from time to time.

You lower yourself down onto the bed, shoving yourself into the middle of the bed and holding out a hand to him. Usually you have a problem, when a man undresses you and keeps his clothes on till the last moment. It is different with Randall. He looks already so vulnerable, that you fear he will be fall apart when he has taken off his clothes and even you are sure he looks gorgeous without clothes, you find him so attractive with his buttoned up shirt.

Randall takes your hand, kicks of his shoes and crawls with you onto the bed, taking care he not steps on you with his knees. He comes down with his face and kisses you again, first gently and then passionate, shoving a pillow down your head and when he is sure you lay good, his kisses wander over your jaw down you throat, over your collarbone. One hand cares your side, little squeezes, light scratches upwards, till his thumb reaches the outline of your breast. His lips coming from the top, and when his mouth brushes over your nipple you moan, hoping he would get the hint and he does. His hand cups your soft flesh, and his tongue darts out circling the hard flesh before sucking softly at it.

A hiss escapes you, when his other hand capture your other breast and rolls your nipple between his fingers. It’s a wonderful feeling of pleasure and gentle pain. There it dawns on you, that Randall Brown knows about woman, not because of many practice, but because he listens, he feels your movement, hears your little gasps, knows how to construe what you like because you are a broadcasting device, sending signals with every breath and move you make. A newsman knows how it works.

He takes his time, teases you, licks and bites your soft flesh, makes you moan and doesn’t hold back with his own broadcasting, in form of little gasps and groans.

Your hands have at some point landed in his hair, ruffling it, routing through it, gently scratching his scalp, also subtle pushing him down, where you would like to have him and after he has cherished your breasts long enough, he kisses down south and his lips trail along the waistband of your knickers. His hands brushing over your upper thighs, drawing circles to the inside. He knows what you want, and you are sure he can’t wait to have you, can’t wait to taste you and later to claim you.

He needs to open the top buttons of his shirt, but he never breaks the contact of his lips on your skin, now by your thighs, kissing, breathing you in. You are wet, and hot and everything in your middle seems to burn, longing for his touch. Randall nibbles on the inside of your thigh over the fabric of your knickers, your scent in his nose he brushes with his it over your covered middle and you both moan out over the sensation. You look down at him and see him look at you, three fingers hovering over your middle, and you can see him smile when he places them over your sensitive spot to draw a line down between your legs and then back again. You eyes fall shut and your head drops back into the pillow with a long moan.

“Please!” you whisper and Randall tugs at your knickers and when you raise your hip, he shoves the fabric over your knees and ankles down to the floor. You are bare naked now, and you never felt more seductive and seduced.

He kneels between you, watching you and he gives you a shy smile before he bows down, kissing your navel upwards, his hands still between your legs, and when he reaches your lips again, you are already out of breath and close to the edge - this man is doing things to you, you never could have imagined.

You hope he can see the begging in your eyes. Then he kisses you, and you feel his fingers landing on your clit, a gentle stroke, not firm more like a feather, but it is enough to make you grab the bedsheets with one hand while the other lands on his face.

“You are beautiful like this,” he whispers into your ear, breathing into the crook of your neck. “Don’t hold back.” Two fingers slide into you and it makes your back arch and your mouth pray to God.

“Randall.”

His fingers curl inside you, rubbing over your sweet spot, and you feel your body tingle and bursting little sparks of pleasure here and there, and when you once more gasp his name, his fingers slide out of you, over your clit upwards to his mouth, where he licks off your scent in front of your open eyes. You can’t restrain yourself and capture his lips to catch your own juice from his lips, your hands now working the buttons of his shirt open and this time he doesn’t stop you. Helps you, and when the shirt is open, he takes down his pants and underwear. The only thing still in place are his glasses, he wants to take them down, but you refuse it to him, with a touch at his wrist, “Don’t.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you, surely wondering why do you request it, but he then smirks and keeps the specs on.

Again he kneels over you, his erection standing hard and pulsing between his legs, his lean body towering over you. Faint chest hair, and a fine line of dark hair down from his navel to his pubic hair, only the slightest of a tummy and the rest is tight skin spanning over a good portion of muscles. For someone in his fifties he is fit and very good looking. He sees your looks, and for a moment he is unsure and so you smile, grabbing for his upper arm to pull him down into a kiss, “You really _are_ very handsome, Randall.”

You feel his member pressing against your hipbone and you grind slightly, urging him to your middle. For a second he hesitates, “I want you,” you whisper in his ear and your hand slides between your bodies and you entwine your fingers around his erection, seeing his eyes fall shut, with a sensual gasp.

He gets lost in your touch, in your gentle strokes and you get lost in his face, all relaxed and filled with lust and passion. All the sternness and the strained lines he has usually in the office are blown away, and then his eyes flicker open, and he looks down at you, panting, “Please stop, or…”

It’s nothing you want, so you let go of him and he lowers himself on top of you, taking himself in hand, to guide himself to your entrance. You help him, shifting a little, raising your hip to make it easier. One arm outstretched by your head he watches himself, pushing against you, first he only rubs the tip of his against your little nub, making you gasp, and biting your lips, and then he places himself at your entrance and pushes gently inside of you, making you and himself gasp. He comes down to you, kissing you, going all the way down and you both gasp and hold still for a moment when you both have linked.

You gaze at each other, and the only thing you can feel is how wonderful he feels inside of you. Adjusting a little, he takes it that you are okay, and then he starts a slow rhythm, never leaving your face with his eyes.

Both of you moan over the friction, over the waves of pleasure that is washing through your bodies. He is a gentle lover, caring, attentive, but you can sense when there is enough trust, there is a chance he would be open to many ideas.

You smirk over his glasses, and soon you both chuckle - both happy, both overwhelmed by the other. You are not a fling for him. Randall Brown might had the one or the other one night stand in his life but never as a fling, there was and will always be hope for more. That’s why you went with him and not with Hector, because there is a chance for more, even when it is ever so small.

“Good?” he asks coyly and you lean up to kiss him, his lips, his cheeks, part of his ear.

“Perfect.”

It encourages him, to go faster, to change the rhythm, and soon you feel this throbbing feeling inside of you building up, that makes you gasp and moan shamelessly.

_To soon_ , you think, you don’t want to come now. Sleeping with him is too beautiful to give it away so fast, “Randall, … please… stop...I…,” you don’t know how to say it, but he can read in you, and stops, brushing some hairs behind your ear, kissing your collarbone and your chest and back.

Then he starts kissing you leisurely, tenderly, his tongue exploring your mouth and lips, and you want to stop time, want him to kiss you always and forever like this.

When a minute or so is over, you start to move your hips again and he joins you with long, firm strokes.

Suddenly you bring your hands around his back, and push one side of your hip up, and he gets what you want, holds you tight and rolls around with you while you kiss each other deep.

Now sitting on top, he sinks even deeper in you and for a split second it’s not painful but you need to bite your lips, close your eyes and give a long hum, both your hands on his chest. When you open your eyes again, Randall looks at you with wide open eyes, his hands holding you by your ribcage, and in the faint light he not only lusts over your sight, while you start to ride him, he openly adores you, “God.”

“Good?” you bend forward, lingering by his lips, moving your middle fast and hard, knowing you do him good, because you can see it in his eyes, but you want him to say it, to admit it.

“Sensational,” he gasps - only he could say such a silly word while having sex, and make it sound like a poem.

For a moment you wonder about, what the people down at the dinner party right now might think. About him, about his whereabouts. Probably nothing, because everybody is so busy with oneself, and even when they waste a thought about him, they would guess, he had went to bed, to read a boring book about politics and not one person out of a hundred would guess, that he his gloriously shagging you - or you him. The thought makes the fire inside of you grow stronger, because this is a secret and you like secrets and you like that it’s been you he has chosen, not someone else.

You will come soon, there is no stopping now, and when you look at him, you see he is close himself, battling with him, holding back for you. Randall will not come before you, not in a million years, but it’s hard for him.

He is on the edge, “I-”

Before he can end the sentence you both roll around again, you want him on top, want him to claim you, make you come, while he pushes into your sweet spot. You hook up your feet into his legs, pulling them closer to intensify the contact - the perfect position. He thrusts harder now, faster, feeling your climax, and his own raging around. His hips slam into yours and you breath incoherent words of encouragement between kisses and moans.

The firework goes off, with a hot wave of sensation, that sprawls through your body starting from the middle into every fibre of your being. You slam your head back into the pillow with a long moan and later you will not be able to say, if you have said his name or God’s, or simply some naughty words, but it will be not important. In this moment all the words mean the same.

While your climax slowly eases away, you hear him fall apart himself, his face in the crook of your neck, groaning, coming deep inside of you, and instinctively you bring your hands and arms around his back, holding him through his ecstasy.

His hot breath flows over your shoulder, it makes you shiver and smile, while turning your head, to give him more room, and his lips kiss the faint layer of salt from your skin with a hum. You draw lines on his back, and place kisses into his hair, gently tousling his hair, dark grey curls that are way longer as one could guess, because he always combed them back.

He shifts, and brings his weight onto his forearms, facing you, with a smile, “You have a preference for my hair?”

“And you for my neck?” you ask instead.

He smirks, eyes lowered, his cheeks softly blushing, “I think I have a preference for many spots on your body.” He is well aware, that this might be an admission to early. Some women get scared, some confused, but he is no man for holding it back. Not after this, and you take it as a compliment, giving it a shy smile.

Carefully he rolls of you, and you both gasp and laugh over it when he parts from you, one last warm wave washing over you. Then he stands up and walks to the bathroom to get a towel for you and while you clean yourself, he turns around the bedsheets to find some clothes for himself and you. Only when you stand up and walk straight toward the exit, he jumps up, as if he is afraid you’ll leave - forgetting you wouldn’t walk out all naked.

“Just using the bathroom,” you say, and he nods, aware of how stupid he must have looked.

After you are finished, you wash your hands and splash some water into your face before looking at you in the mirror. Cheeks slightly flushed, your chest is red and and your eyes are glassy. You are thoroughly shagged by this man and it is been a long times since you felt so good and satisfied. Actually, right now you feel like a goddess. You wink at yourself, your view falling down to the sink, where Randall’s cosmetics stand. Aftershave, razor and stuff like that. Precisely lined up, and you reach for the aftershave to smell it. Then you place it back, and return to the bedroom.

He stands by the table, wearing some boxer briefs, and holding your panties in your hand.

“Thank you,” you blush, and put them on. He also has taken your dress from the floor and has placed it on a hanger beside his shirt. “Do you want me to-”

“Stay,” he quickly says. “Only when you like of course.”

You do, and so you stay and while he uses the bathroom you crawl into the sheets and before you fall asleep you feel his body pressed against your back - he is spooning you, kissing your neck once more and the last question you ask yourself, is how this man is even possible.

You wake up around five, Randall softly snoring aside from you. Not that you want to leave, but you know it’s better to leave now as later, when the floor is buzzing with people and you don’t want to end up in an awkward situation or make the people talk about him. So you gather all your stuff, shove over your dress as quickly and silent as you can and grab a pen from the desk. There is a breakfast in the morning, so you will probably see him, but there will be the others and one never knows, so you write down your number and place his tie aside from it, to make sure he will get the note.

Back in your room, you go back to sleep for half an hour before taking a long shower, and pack all your stuff and later join the others in the lobby for breakfast.

You spot Randall by the corner for juice and when he sees you, his eyes light up. You can tell he is missing some sleep like you, but he doesn’t care and you are relieved to see a reflection of happiness in his eyes.

No one notices the little glimpse you both exchange, without saying a word, except a “good morning”. For obvious reasons, you decide not to sit at his table, as he sits aside one of the BBC bosses, but you choose a table across from him, where you can glance over from time to time, to spot him smiling at you.

Later at the reception desk, when you are about to give back your key and to check out, you see him standing at the end of the desk, by a little table and an armchair - his bag resting on it. He pulls out his phone and then turns his back onto you, and then your phone buzzes and you frown at it. It’s a number you don’t know, but you can guess who it might be.

“Hello?” you look over to Randall, who turns around again, leaning against the counter, holding the little paper, on which you have left your number.

“Does this mean I can see you again?” there is a slight fear in his tone, about rejection.

“Would you?” you ask, biting your lips. Excited and nervous as a teenager. “Like to see me again?”

You see him pursing his lips, one finger shoving his glasses up his nose at the bridge of it, “Yes, but…”

“But?”

“I hope you know, I am beyond fifty already, so…,” ah, poor Randall, always worried about his age, about his worth, even after you have came with him to his room, made love with him, kissed him. “I thought-”

“-How about Friday?” it’s in two days, and you will not accept a no. “Dinner. Your place, my place, whatever you like. I can cook, more or less, there is a chance I will poisoning you, so you should think hard if you want to risk it, but aside that I … I really want to see you again.”

He smiles, the first time ever, as you notice, brightly over to you, in a room full of people - but no one notices - except of you of course, “In this case; my place, you cook and I take care we don’t get poisoned. I write you my address.”

He hangs up, and you grin at him, biting your lips, when Freddie walks by, asking you why are you smiling, and you shrug, “Just so. Looking forward to the weekend, that’s all.”

With that you check out, and walk to your car, while Randall needs to stop outside the hotel because Hector wants to talk with him, probably excusing his behaviour the other night. Randall nods, dots at him, stern, telling him probably that he will be fired when he does it again, then your car rolls by and you raise your hand for a wave in a reflex. Hector does the same, Randall doesn’t, but while Hector has forgotten about you, the moment your car has passed him, you can see Randall follow you with your eyes, all tired, but happy.

And that’s the story how you fell for the Head of News, unexpected but, oh, so good.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want to follow Randall's dinner invitation, but something goes wrong. Will it stay with an one-night-stand or will you both find a way into a real relationship? Unplanned second chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, why did I write this?! I am asking this in every fic I write... well, people seemed to be very eager for another chapter and who am I to decline a Randall fic?!  
> It turned out once again very long and I wasn't sure at all when I had my rough draft. It wasn't Randall at all, but now I think with changing a few things here and adding some stuff there, this is Randall. Also note, that while writing all this Randall Brown fic, the character evolves. Not necessarily in only one fic, but through all the fics I have written so far.

When you arrive home to your little apartment, you place your bag into your bedroom to unpack it later and fall onto your bed. A wide happy smile on your face.

Did this really happen? Did you really spent the night with the Head of News of The Hour, Randall Brown?

Yes, you did and you couldn’t be happier. Hugging your pillow, you let the memories of the last evening and the night come back to life.

You smirk over the moment, you both had stood in the lift, exchanging little teasings about him being your boss or not, and you remember how you had grabbed his wrist to tell him, he wasn’t your boss anymore since a few hours. Now looking back at it, you can’t even say, where the courage came from.

You remember his fingertips on the edge of your dress, short before he had kissed you in his hotel room and your hands search instinctively the spot on your upper thigh, where he had touched you, and then your lips.

His lips, so soft and demanding, had tasted after peppermint and when you remember how you both have kissed each other passionately, with dancing tongues, a chill runs down your spine.

It leads to the fantasy of him kissing down your throat, over your naked body, over your stomach and how he spreads your legs apart. His lips teasing your wet centre, nibbling and licking around your sweet spot and just when your hands start to creep down to sneak into your pants, your cell phone starts to vibrate.

You were so into your fantasy, that you shriek a little before reaching for the phone.

It’s a text message.

‘ _Save and sound at home? R.’_

For a moment, you press your phone against your chest with a wide grin. Gosh, you feel like a teenager having a crush for a popstar or something. Chuckling you turn around on your bed and type an answer.

‘ _Everything is fine, thanks. You too?’_

A few minutes pass by, then your phone buzzes again. ‘ _Back in the office. Duty called. Also, save and sound. R.’_

While you read his message a few times, you think, that you never have thought that Randall would be someone for text messages. You try to conclude if you thought that because of his age, or that you never have seen him with a mobile phone before the morning at the hotel. Even then, you never thought he would be one for technology. Then you think, he is a journalist, and he is the boss of a lot of people who think they are all smart asses, like Freddie (in a good way) and he probably needs to know all this new stuff to be updated at any moment.

You almost forget to text back, as you are mesmerized about the thought of Randall. About him cursing over his smartphone doing a new update he might not understands or him giving you a lesson in a new news app you haven’t heard yet.

You try to remind yourself not to have such thoughts yet. You both didn’t even had a proper date yet, only something that could count as a One-Night-Stand. It doesn’t seem he expects an answer back, but before you get lost in an endless discussion of texting back or not, you sight and simply write back;

‘ _Did you give Mister Madden a shout?’_

When you have hit send, you find the question stupid and regret it, “Fuck! What kind of question is that? Stupid!”

‘ _Yes, was the usual Wednesday shout. Also this time I put a bit more effort into it.’_

You think about the message, ‘ _Why?’_

Mere minutes pass without an answer and you are afraid you have done something wrong, but the moment you want to write something like ‘ _Sorry, for being so nosy_ ’, he has sent an answer.

‘ _Priory Gardens 7, my address. R.’_

You huff, does he not want to answer your question, or what is the reason? ‘ _That’s not fair.’_

‘ _What is?’_

‘ _I think you know. Randall Brown always knows.’_

‘ _Says who?’_

‘ _Your people. I was an attentive internship.’_ That actually sounds like a bad innuendo you think the moment the message has left your phone.

Another long minutes pass by, and now you are sure you have offended him in some sort and quickly type your apology. ‘ _I didn’t mean to sound...ambiguous.’_

‘ _You didn’t. I only gave Mister Madden another shout.’_

‘ _That’s very much effort. What did he do?’_

Five minutes pass by, and you are not sure what is happening on the other side. If he still gives Hector a shout or maybe he has something important to do. It’s not like you don’t know how important his job is. Also, he might is not allowed to tell you.

When your phone buzzes, and you read the message, you smile, knowing it was none of the previous reasons.

‘ _Treating you so disrespectful.’_

Randall Brown had considered long and hard if he should send you this message. A man of no rash decisions.

‘ _Thank you.’_

‘ _Mister Madden deserves a shout from time to time.’_

‘ _I meant… for last night.’_

‘ _The pleasure was all mine.’_ And twenty seconds later. ‘ _That sounded not right. I meant; I enjoyed your company and hope to see you on Friday as promised.’_

‘ _You will. Have a beautiful day.’_

#

You don’t turn up on Friday in Priory Gardens 7, instead you get a phone call from your mother, and from there on everything went all but the right way.

#

_The next morning_

It is short before 8 o’clock and you sit in your car and you are a wreck. You sit there since at least half an hour, trying to convince yourself to step outside and walk over to Randall Brown’s door to tell him why you haven’t showed up the day before without any message or call, which would have explained your absence. You are a mess, you feel horrible and you probably deserve it, you think.

Then, when a dog owner crosses by your car the third time you think, you might should act, before someone calls the cops. Grabbing the little paper bag from your passenger seat, you head over the street and walk up to Randall’s house. It’s a small town house. It looks clean and nice and also a bit expensive.

Your heart is beating in your throat, when you press the bell with a shaking hand. You haven’t slept much and your stomach feels as if it would revolt any second, and then your legs only tell you to run away. Run away and never turn back. Delete his number and forget about the night you have spent with him. The moment you want to give into this idea, the door goes open and you look into the eyes of Randall Brown.

First he is surprised, he surely doesn’t get visitors that early on a Saturday morning, then he realizes, it is you and his expression changes into something that can only be interpreted as hurt. He probably has just forgotten about the sad feeling you have originated the night before and now all the feelings are back like a sledgehammer.

He stiffens up, frowns and you can see he wants to shut the door in front of your nose, but he is too polite to do so and maybe he hasn’t thought you would show up ever again, and now there is a spark of curiosity. Also you better should act before he changes his mind.

“I am sorry!” you speak up, holding up one hand as to beg him not to close the door. “I am really sorry.”

For a moment you pause, just to be sure, if he wants to say something to that, but you haven’t said enough and so he only keeps standing by the door, one hand on the door handle - like a threat - the other shoved into the pockets of his denims he wears, matching the dark blue shirt.

You are too nervous, and there are too much words in your head battling for a sense that you don’t realize, that he is not wearing one of his suits and therefore looks so different and also dashing.

You try to sort the words, to build up the explanation, but you are sleep deprived and so you decide, you just will open your mouth and the words will spill out and hopefully Randall will be clever enough to understand the story you will present.

“I was about to drive over, and then my mum called. She fell, nothing… nothing bad, but she can be a bit hysteric,” you need to roll your eyes over the thought. “She wanted to go to a hospital and I am the only one she has around with a car, and so I gave in and drove her to the flippin’ hospital,” you fumble hectically with the paper bag that inherits some croissants you have brought as an apology.

“I know, I should have called, but everything was so hectic and the hospital and my mum. And then I forgot… I mean not forgot... but... damn… And then it was like eleven till we were home again, and I was ... ,” you had three text messages on your phone and two missed calls from him.

Asking if everything was alright, if something had happened. You hadn’t heard your phone and your mum was so possessive of you in the hospital and you needed to talk to some doctors and you always had him in the back of your mind, but every time you thought about calling him, someone interrupted you. When it had been half past eleven, you couldn’t find the guts anymore to call him.

“I should have called, and I am sorry, and I fucked up, and …,” you stop, closing your eyes, afraid to look Randall longer as a few seconds in the eyes.

Those eyes that are so hurt by your actions. You know how he feels, you went through a similar experience a few years ago with a guy you really had fallen for. After a few dates he never had called again and your heart was not only slightly broken by it.

You keep quiet, not because you wait for him to say something, more to recapitulate what your actions have wrecked, and you come to the conclusion that it might be better to leave now. Placing the paper bag on a little wall aside you, you give him a sad smile, “I know you not wanted to hear that. I have hurt you, and I am sorry, I am an idiot and I only came to tell you this. I am sorry. I… I should better go now,” you sniff, feeling tears arise.

For a moment you give the paper bag a look, as if it is your only friend, and then shake your head over your own stupidity. Now realizing what mistakes you made. Knowing, even when you intend to get over it, you will have guilty feelings for more than just a month. Probably forever.

“Would you like to come in?” his voice stops you by the little gate that leads toward the street. Turning around you are not sure if you heard him right and wait there for a confirmation. “Please?”

With a sniff you start nodding and return to his door, picking up the paper bag, and he holds the door open for you so you can enter his house. You mumble an inaudible ‘ _Thanks’_ when you pass him, trying to catch the mood he is in. His face is a façade, and you don't know him well enough yet, what would allow you to read in the small hints that are scattered in his face and in his posture.

You can’t see that he is nervous, - there is no tie to fumble with. You can’t see that his mouth had become dry the moment he had spotted you in front of his door - purposely only licking his lips when you were not looking. You don’t know that his heart had skipped a beat that moment.

He passes you and you silently follow him into the living room. Shy you look around, take in the place he lives. Warm colours, brown and white, a lot of books and some landscape pictures on the wall. A leather couch and a fitting arm chair. You notice he has no TV, but you can see a laptop on a table - closed.

“I was just about to make breakfast,” he states, his eyes flicker into the direction of his laptop. Noticing, that you make your little observations. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” you follow him like a puppy toward the kitchen, unsure what will await you. What will he say, and why does he serves you coffee now? Shouldn’t he give you a shout, or at least tell you how much you have hurt him? How disappointed he is.

You look around in the kitchen, when he has turned his back on you, trying to spot some evidence of yesterday. You imagine yourself in this situation, and you would have set up everything. The ingredients, the pots and stuff.

Except for a bag of noodles aside the fridge there is nothing. Somehow you are relieved, as your guilt level is already over the limit.

Standing by the counter you watch his hands fumble with one of those fancy pad machines and there you see his hands are slightly shaking. He is nervous as much as you are. He sees you have watched him, and turns around to get two plates from the cupboard while the coffee flows into the mugs. You unpack the croissants and place one on each plate.

“Croissants,” he looks at them and then at you. For a moment it is to you, as if he is far away.

“I like croissants,” you shrug, and add with a faint smile. “Reminds me of holiday.”

“The best croissants I ever ate,” he places a mug in front of you, “were in Paris, in a little café, near the Montmartre.”

You know he has lived and worked in France for a while. You have overheard Hector and Freddie talking about it, as Randall had recruited Freddie in Paris.

“Sounds nice,” is everything you can say.

You never have been in France before. Spain, USA, but it never had dragged you to France. Right now, the croissants untouched in front of you it’s different. You would like to know the name of the café he has mentioned, would like to sit there at a table, watch the people. To see what he had seen.

“It was,” he takes the milk and pours a slosh into his mug and then shoves it over to you. Followed by the sugar.

Again you look at him, longer as necessary, wanting to read him, to understand him, but there is still this blank expression, and you can’t hold back anymore; “I usually don’t do this, okay!”

He arches an eyebrow at you, “Drinking coffee?”

Acknowledging his sense of humour, you try not to get sidetracked by his remark, “Sleeping with my boss.”

The other eyebrow joins the first, and you think there should be more, but for the moment you wait for his response, only to interrupt him when he is about to say something. “I mean, sleeping with you,” you raise a hand, requesting another try. “No, that’s not what I mean, I mean… One-Night-Stands. I am sure you had such impression yesterday, but I am not that kind of girl.”

He opens his mouth and wants to say something, but he closes it again, reconsidering his words, “I never would allow me a judgement over you,” he nips from his coffee. “And I don’t do this either. Having One-Night-Stands.” The first time since you are here, he gives you one of his rare smiles.

Blushing over his low voice, the slight Scottish Accent, hearing him suggest that you wasn’t a fling for him, the only thing you want to do is cry. You like Randall, you like him already way too much and the first thing you do is to disappoint him, what maybe has left a crack in your early relationship that never can be repaired again.

“I like you,” you then say.

You are no one for opening up easily, also you think this way is maybe your only chance to win back some trust.

“I was so looking forward to yesterday. Terrible cooking of mine,” you laugh nervously and he smirks. “And I felt horrible all night - if it helps to know - I think I only slept like three hours,” as to underline this statement, you take a long gulp from the coffee and then you look at him, now finally seeing his different appearance.

His hair isn’t done like he used to do it for work and so you can see his untamed curls and you ask yourself, why he even puts gel into it, as it looks so good without it. Probably because everybody would get distracted by his gorgeous looking mane.

You feel your cheeks get red over the thought, and you need to look down into your mug, pushing away the feeling to just stand up and walk over to kiss him. Shove his glasses into his hair, and simply press your lips against his. As you haven’t showed up the night before you know you have lost this right. It would not turn out sensual and sweet, but awkward.

For a minute you only stare down into the brown liquid, watching a bubble go round in a circle and you feel like in a void. Where will this go from here? What will he do? What will come of it? Is he still interested?

You said everything you wanted and now it is on him, and if he decides you are not worth it, or he is too hurt by your actions and will send you away after this, you will accept it. You will go home, cry yourself to sleep and try to forget him.

The touch of his fingers on the back of your hand brings you back into the now. Looking up you meet his greenish eyes and a fond smile. Gently his fingers span around your wrist and he tucks and makes you come toward him.

“I like you too,” he brushes over your cheek, along your temple, over your ear. “And I really would like to make you lunch or dinner later this day. I would like to explore this with you.”

“Yes?” you lean into his touch, your hand taking his in yours, searching his warm palm.

“Yes,” he smiles. “It seems it was a misunderstanding. So lets forget about it.”

Relief rushes through your body, and the fear of having lost him gets replaced by a few tears that run down your cheek, “I’m sorry,” ungallant you brush the tears away with your sleeve. “It’s been a long night, and… I really would like to do that. With you.”

Your answer makes him smile, and he brings your hand against his lips to press a gentle kiss onto it, “You are tired.”

“So very much,” you rub your face, shoving your hands through your hair, a yawn escaping your mouth.

“Would you like to lay down a bit? You can use my bedroom,” he needs to bite his lips over the expression on your face you face him with. He doesn’t wait for a reaction, and takes your hand in his and walks off to his bedroom. “Come on.”

His bedroom is upstairs and surprisingly big. There is a large wardrobe, and a suit, and some shirts hang on some hangers on one of the doors. He has a queen size bed, neatly made, with two large pillows and you can’t deny, that you ask yourself when it was the last time he had shared the bed with someone. “What will you do?”

Obviously he hasn’t thought about that, as he stumbles with his words, “I...I don’t know, actually,” he laughs sheepishly.

You can see he is tired too, but is to shy to ask you, if he can lay down with you and so you come to his rescue.

“You can sleep with me,” and you groan the moment, one of his eyebrows comes up, and you both blush at the same time. “I mean,” you start to giggle. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure?” he asks, and for a second you think the man will come up to you and kiss you, but he decides otherwise and only nods.

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” he raises his two forefingers, and steps to his wardrobe and pulls out a shirt. “I guess you didn’t bring a pyjama or something.”

You take the grey shirt from him, your hands brushing over his, “No, I haven’t thought that far.”

For a moment you both only stand there, looking at each other all besotted and you both imagine how it would be to kiss the other, to undress, to feel skin on skin but you are both tired and it is better to regain strength again and so Randall takes some pyjama pants from the bed and excuses himself, so you can change without being disturbed by him.

Taking of your pants and socks, you place them carefully on a chair nearby. Then you take of your shirt and for a moment you don’t know if you should take off your bra.

‘ _Don’t be so prude,’_ you think. ‘ _The man has seen you naked already.’_

Only in your black panties you shove over his shirt, that is of course way too big for you. You like it. You like the feeling of something of him, on you and you watch yourself in the mirror of the wardrobe, smiling at yourself. Then you hear a knock on the door, and you find Randall in front of it, in some black plaid pyjama pants and a white shirt. His eyes travel down your body over your bare legs, and he blushes and seems to curse himself over his blunt staring.

“I am sorry,” he walks over to one side of the bed, and turns down the blankets.

You do the same on your side and then you carefully crawl into the bed. It’s soft and feels warm, his personal scent hanging in the cotton. “It’s okay.”

You lay down and so does Randall, and for a moment it feels very awkward, as you both lay like getting buried or something and then you start to giggle and you hear his head turn, looking at you. So you clasp your hands over your mouth, but you can’t stop and it ends in a laughing fit, “I am sorry.”

“No, you are not!” Randall chuckles, amused over your outburst.

“No, indeed, I am not,” You roll onto your side, and watch him looking at the ceiling. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods toward the ceiling, smiling, “Yes.”

“In the hotel, at the elevator,” he turns with his face to you, “was that coincidence?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I remember joking, that I thought you were checking on me. You never answered that,” you smile over the memory. You and him in the lift. The magic spark setting you on fire. “You did follow me, didn’t you?”

He purses his lips with a smile, his ears going red - you caught him, “I remember one conference, you sat in the back, and you were to only one not taking notes. You had this smile on your lips, while listening and looking at me. I forgot about it - on the surface,” he pauses, reconstructs the memories, his emotions and his motivations. “Then I saw you at the dinner party and you smiled at me.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, can’t you remember? Miss Rowley gave you a bunch of flowers, I think they celebrated your leave. I was talking to someone, and looked over and you were smiling.”

“I remember the moment, but not that I was smiling, but I probably was,” you beam at him, as if the memory is an old one, and not only three days old.

“One thing lead to another, and then… I don’t know,” he shakes his head, unsure from where he took the guts to take you to his room. “It’s true, I usually don’t take women to my room, I usually prefer the old way.”

“The old way?” you ask curious, furrowing your brow.

“Dinners? Some more dinners?” he teases and you almost wait for him to joke that he prefers marriage before sex.

“We ended up being very scandalous,” laughing you press on finger on your lips, making a mocking face. “You can still do the courting.”

“Courting?” now it is him, who laughs up. “Do people still use this word these days?”

“I thought you were one of them using it,” absently you reach over with one of your hands and brush one of his curls from his forehead.

Before you can take it away, he grabs for it, “I shouldn’t tell you, but this bed never had another visitor aside me.”

For a moment you feel the guilt again over his confession. How must he have felt, after he couldn’t reach you on your phone. After each text message he had sent, hoping you would finally write back, and the disappointment when you hadn’t.

And then, instead of saying something stupid, you reach out for his glasses and take them off and place them carefully onto the night stand aside you, facing a quizzical looking Randall.

Slowly you lean in, lowering your face down to his lips, afraid he might will reject you, but he doesn’t, and when you are only millimetres away from his lips you give him a long glance, making sure he wants this and when you see his mouth slightly open and feel his breath hitch against your chin, you start to kiss him.

Hesitant and careful at first, like a feather brushing over skin. Slowly you put more pressure into it, sucking at his upper lip, and when you feel his right hand at your cheek, his approval, your eyes fall shut.

A hum, and a gasp, a lick with your tongue over his mouth and Randall parts his lips for you, his head resting on the pillow, his fingers entangling with your hair.

It feels weightless. Beautiful, warm and it is the best kiss you ever had, you think. Your tongues taste each other, languid, passionate and deep, your hands find the back of the other, embracing each other. Randall’s scent mingles with the faint smell of coffee, the bed sheets rustle under your motions and mix up with your heart beat and the rushing of your blood that echo's in your ear.

His embrace is strong and he wants you so eager as you want him, and it is too you, as if you both haven’t seen each other not for three days but for three weeks - the magic of new relationships.

You scoot closer, pressing your body against him and he hums into your mouth, and then he breaks away from you. Opening your eyes again you see his roam over your face, filled with delight and affection, “If you keep kissing me like this, dear,” he whispers with a smile, “we both don’t get any rest soon.”

You blush instantly, knowing he is right, and for a second you dare to forget about being all tired, but you both need sleep. Sure you both could handle a quick fumble, but none of you wants to get over it as quick as possible, you want to explore him, and he wants to explore you, take his time. Give you not pleasure for a few hasted minutes but for way longer. “You’re right, we should try to sleep.”

Before he makes you rest on his shoulder, he leans one more time in, kissing you gently, fleeting almost. But he can’t go without it, not after feeling so desperate the day before. He needs a little reward, needs a reminder it was worth the pain.

Randall brings one arm around you, and you rest your head on his shoulder, one hand around his chest, pressing tight against him, against his warmth and then you press a quick kiss on his cheek, “Thanks.”

His fingertips brushing through your hair, his other hand covering yours, “What for?”

“Not sending me away.”

He smiles, faint, thinking about the moment he had opened the door to find you in front of it. There was never any bad feelings, only relieve. Happiness seeing you, finding out he wasn’t just an affair for you. “No, thank you.”

“What for?”

“Coming over,” he kisses the top of your head. “I wouldn’t have been so courageous.”

As answer you press against him, and he cares you till you fall asleep in his arms, having his heart beat in your ear, that leads you into a dream about the ocean.

#

Three hours later you wake up, curled aside from Randall, who still sleeps, softly snoring, and before you move you watch him sleep for a minute and ask yourself how lucky one can be. How do you deserve this, his patience with you, his affection for you? You feel how much you have missed him the day before, how you have yearned for him, for his presence, his stern smile, the way he touches his glasses or tie, when nervous or unsure.

While you muse over all this, he slowly wakes up with a hum and a moving with his head, as if a dream does not want to let him go. Then with a deep breath his eyes fly open. His head tilting, you greet him with a smile, “Hey.”

Smiling back, “Hey. Could you sleep a bit?”

“Yes. Feeling much better now,” you shift a bit, and realize you feel sticky. “Do you mind, when I take a shower?”

His head goes up, looking over to the attached bathroom he has, as if he needs to check that it is still there, “No, go ahead. I’ll bring you a fresh towel in a minute.”

“Great!” you give him a kiss on the lips, and then jump out of bed, walking into his bathroom. It’s big, and nice, and his shower is huge. It seems he had let it especially made. It’s ground levelled and the shower head is so big, it will imitate the Amazons rain.

Such designer stuff, you never have thought Randall would be one for it, but you guessed he likes comfort, and he makes good money as Head of News, so why not invest it into the nice things of life.

Stripping down your clothes, you open the glass door and slowly turn the tap. Water starts dripping from the ceiling. Quickly you have figured out how to make the water the temperature you like, and then you stand in the rain and it feels wonderful. You even cheer a bit over the new experience.

“You are alright?” Randall’s voice echoes through the room, and you slightly jump.

Stepping to the fogged door, you clean it with your hand and see him standing in front of it, a towel in hand, a smirk on his lips. He can very well guess, that you have found delight in his shower.

“Love your shower!” you grin, and then when he doesn’t make any intention to lay the towel down, or to go, you bit your lips and add; “Wanna join me?”

“Would you like that?”

“Yes.”

For a moment he seems as he would decline your offer, thinking about courting and having dinners first, but then something in him gets the better of him, and he shoves his shirt over his head, and his pants down his legs, before he joins you in the shower.

You both have seen each other naked, and still, he looks shy and you are too, and while his eyes try not to roam over your body, you awkwardly step aside to give him some room - as if there isn’t enough space.

“Hey,” he smiles coyly, looking up to the ceiling where the water comes out, slowly stepping into the water stream.

You watch the water soak his hair, running down his face and upper body, and while he brushes his hands over his face and hair, you follow the stream of water down over his belly, his sex toward his legs. The suits Randall wears are a good hide for a handsome body. Lean, fit and for you, without any flaw.

Looking back up, you find Randall look down at you with an intense stare. He would never say it, but he is hungry - for you. Desperate.

Your hand reaches out, to touch his stomach, brush over the spare chest hair, down over his belly button, and you can see him shudder when you come close to his loins. You lean forward, and you press a kiss on his collarbone. And another, and another, round his throat, over to the other, your left hand on his back, drawing circles and your right hand wandering between your bodies.

Your fingertips brush over his belly button, following a fine line of hair and when you feel his pubic bone, you follow the hollow of his loin. Your tongue flickers over his nipples and it makes him groan, his hand touching your cheek and he leans down in search for a passionate kiss.

Your hand comes around his testicles, gently squeezing and he whimpers under the touch, breaking the kiss for sucking in some air. His eyes are shut, his mouth half open and you like the look on his face. The lust.

Your flat hand wanders upwards. He is hardening already. Spanning your hand loosely around his length, you give him a few slow strokes and then you can feel his strong, throbbing member ready for you.

He moans over the attention you give him, his lips searching yours again, one of his hands sliding up your side, cupping one of your breasts, his thumb trailing over the peak.

Hot water is running between you, and you both gasp over the kisses and your touches. Heat is sprawling around inside you. You are in need for him. You need Randall, you need his hands on your body, and him inside you.

“Randall,” you whisper, making a long agonising stroke with your hands. Pressing your hipbone against him, bending his sex gently down, so the tip of his touches your sex. “I want you.”

He takes your hand away from him, and pulls you into a deep kiss. His mouth wandering over your neck, nibbling your skin, his hands moving down your back, down to your bottom. Fingernails scratching you slightly, and your nerves there twitch, sending shivers upwards, before he cups your buttocks, squeezing them, “You are so beautiful.”

With that he first leans down, searching your breasts, licking over them, suckling and squeezing with his hand and then he drops to his knees and presses you against the wall. Without long hesitation, he kisses his way down your belly, his hands already on your inner thighs, and when you feel his mouth coming over your hotspot, you gasp over the sensation.

Back in the hotel room, you remember you had hoped for him doing this to you, and it seems he now wants to make it up for the missed opportunity.

Slowly his tongue trails around the little nub, and then bit by bit deeper, urging its way between your folds to your centre.

‘ _God,’_ you think in a daze. ‘ _I love this shower.’_

It’s not enough to make you come, but it’s enough to face him after a minute with red cheeks, and the urging need to kiss your scent from his tongue.

“Turn around,” his hoarse voice says, and his hands land by your hip, guiding you around. You follow his gentle command and get embraced by him from behind. Pressing your back into his lean figure, his big hands travel over your body, softly kneading your breasts, twirling your nipples between his fingers, kissing your neck, till you moan loudly. His right hand, moving between your legs, and to give him more room, you spread them, and you get rewarded, when two of his fingers start circling your little nub.

Raising your arms, you bring them around his neck, so you will not lose balance, grabbing the back of his head you soon feel first waves of pleasure race through your body.

Randall’s erection is pressing hard against your bottom and when you can’t stand your separation from him anymore, you reach behind you and take him between your legs. Immediately he is grinding against your sex, moving between your folds, building up friction.

You have to still his hand, or you will explode, and that’s not what you want, not when he is not inside of you. Leaning forward, you press your hands against the wall, tilting your bottom. Randall’s hands trailing over your back from your shoulders to your hip. A glance over your shoulder is showing you, how filled up with lust he is. You sensed right, the night in the hotel, with enough trust this man would be up for more than just some shy missionary, you think. Not that you are overly experimental, but being taken in a shower like this, was always on the list.

He takes himself in hand, and shoves along your bottom line, till he meets your entrance, and you gasp already over the vague contact.

He hesitates a moment. No, it’s not hesitation, it’s a stalling technique. Randall is playing, teasing, testing you and him, how long can he have the sensation of _not_ taking you.

Not very long. Pushing the tip into you, he slides with one gentle stroke all the way down with a groan. Over the sensation you bite your lips, close your eyes and listen to the water.

Concentrate on him inside of you, on being filled with him. You are tight in this position and you tense your inner muscles and you hear him gasp, one hand sprawling over your back, to your shoulder, pulling you closer. He doesn’t want to waste any inch there is. Then the hand comes back to your hip, and he slowly backs away, till he slides out of you completely.

The disappointment over it doesn’t dwell long, when he pushes inside of you again, this time more firmer, and you need to snap for air.

‘ _Do it again,’_ you think, but you are no one for talking such thing.

Over all you are a bit prudish. Also Randall seems to sense your desire, and does the same trick once again, and then sets a rhythm. Long strikes, firm, still a gentle rocking. His hands trail over your sides, and then he makes you bend up, to lean against him. Maybe not the most comfortable position, but in this moment you do the hell thinking about this, not while the Head of News shags you gloriously in his designer shower.

His teeth nibble at your shoulders, his hands cupping your breasts, teasing your nipples and you feel his length hit against your special spot again and again. Sending warmth and pleasure through your body push by push, and out of nothing you feel this boiling inside your stomach, contracting, cramping, growing bigger and bigger.

“Coming…,Randall,...” you utter, but you’re still not there yet.

His hand slips between your legs, and press against your clit, whispering your name, telling you how beautiful you are, how wonderful. His hip colliding with your bottom, in short trusts. The naughty sounds this makes, swallowed by the stream of water coming constantly down on you both. His fingers circling you hard and fast, his voice thick and husky in your ear and more Scottish. He would do anything for you, anything, and that kicks you right over the edge, gasping his name.

The ball of lust and desire that has grown, comes now to an explosion, rushing in every inch of your body. Your muscles contracting at one point in your body and in others slowly go weak. Your head drops back, your mouth open, moaning while Randall shags you through your orgasm, and before you come back to senses, you feel his mouth on your shoulder, his teeth sinking into your flesh, and with your name on his lips he comes deep inside of you with a last couple of hard thrusts.

Your forehead rests against the wall of the shower, panting you watch the water flow between your feet. One of Randall’s hand rests aside your head, preventing himself from losing balance, while his head rests on your back, his lips giving your skin little pecks and his hand caressing your side while he breathes for air. There is one thing you really like. Randall is always with you, caressing you, worshipping you all the time. His hands seeking your skin, like a river the sea. He is courting you already, without you both knowing it.

“I can’t believe we did this,” he steps away from you, making you turn around before crushing his lips against yours, holding you in his strong arms. “Also I am very glad.”

He hadn’t had sex like this in a long time, in a very long time. Randall knows how it works, he had his experimental times, his activities in his late twenties, and beginning of his thirties. As he always was a bit shy and restrained - something that seemed to have compound over the long years and over one or two serious heart breaks, it took mostly a more forcing counterpart to push him into something new. Randall Brown had to learn over long years to say when he wanted to try something new or simply something that was ‘ _usual business’_ for other people - like using his tongue. Till today he had trouble, afraid scaring the woman at his side away. Also what woman, you are the first for a long time as it seems. He might has not much sex, but when he has he absolutely loves doing it.

He turns off the water with one hand, and maps your body out with the other. Feeling along your curves, up your spine around your shoulder blades, while his lips kiss some water drops from your shoulder.

“As said,” you kiss him softly, wrapping your hands and arms around his body, “I love your shower.”

Smirking against your lips, one of his eyebrows is raising, “I am not sure, if I am young enough to do this on regular basis, when you suggest that.”

You’re not giving him an answer, only a shy smile while stepping with him outside. Gently he tucks you into his fluffy and too big bathrobe, before he wraps a towel around his hip, and when he wants to grab another towel to dry his hair you make him sit, and carefully rub his grey curls dry.

He watches you like a curious cat, and you can see the happiness in his eyes, “Would you like that? Doing this on regular basis?” there is insecurity in your voice and Randall can hear it.

You know how the question is phrased. It can mean anything. Only shagging, or shagging with a bit of dating, or maybe even more.

His hands come up and capture yours, taking away the towel, “Sit down for a moment.” Embracing you, he makes you sit on his upper thigh. “I would like to do this on regular basis, and I don’t mean sleeping with you,” he shoves your wet hair behind your ear. “I mean, having you around. Meeting for dinners and nice talks. Here. Or at your place or wherever. To be honest, it wasn’t my plan doing … this,” he blushes over his own words, too shy to say sex as it is so devaluing, and too afraid to say making love, as it is maybe a bit too early for the word ‘ _love’_. “I still want to serve you dinner. Court you.”

“And I still would like to have it with you,” you glance at his curls, half dry, and shove your fingers through it. It’s almost your favourite thing to do. “I still have a preference for your hair,” then you turn around to the sink, where he has placed his glasses and put them onto his nose, “And your specs.” You touch his shoulders, let your fingers slide over his upper arms, his pale English skin, over his collarbones up to his chin ending by his lips. “I think I have a preference for the whole man called Randall Brown.”

“Don’t forget, the man comes with many flaws.”

You stand up from his lap, holding out your hand, “Don’t we all? Early dinner?”

“Only when you tell me one thing,” you nod, reaching for your clothes. “Why did you let me take you to my room?”

“As you said, I would have been able to deal with Hector myself, but the thing is, half the room knew he is married and that he goes after the internships. They were all so busy with themselves, you were the only one who decided to check on me. You were the only one not being busy with yourself,” you smile at him, shoving your shirt over your head, while he still just stands there, the towel around his hip. “I thought, that this is a rare trait,” you walk up to him, brushing your palm against his cheek, your thumb over his ear. “And I love the way you smile.”

He wants to lean down for a kiss, when you stop him, with one finger on his chest, “Also you lied to me!”

In shock he grabs your hand, panic in his eyes, “No.. I…”

“You said something about some Scottish whiskey, twelve years old, Mister,” you make him step back in mock dismay.

With a relieved sigh, followed by a playful groan, he lunges forward, wraps his arms around you and topples you over onto the bed, “You really were an attentive internship.”

Giggling, you fling your legs around his waist, “I know. Also, it doesn’t answer my question.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes mockingly, “To be precise, it was more an accusation not a question, dear,” he lowers his lips. “What can I say? I don’t drink.”

You let him kiss you long and passionate, you let him explore you with his mouth, his fingers and let his eyes beam at you in adoration and love.

And that’s the story of you and Randall Brown, and a dinner invitation - or shall we say; a designer shower?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, still there? Great!  
> I have to admit I wasn't sure about the shower scene in connection with Randall, but ... I not wanted to bore you and I haven't written such scene in any fic yet and somehow I thought, go for it! Randall is a fox! 
> 
> In case you liked this story, please leave a comment or a message on tumblr, I would be delighted to hear your opinion, good or bad! Thanks! Also, never say never for a third chapter, but for now, I let this one rest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randall and you having an office meeting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here and there people asked me to update this thing, and so I did, after thinking forever about a good plot.
> 
> It follows loosely the plot of the first two chapters. In this one, you can assume you are in a relationship with Randall for a while and by now you work for him at "The Hour".

You usually knock at his door before you enter, all polite. But there are moments you don't - special moments. Certain moments.

Then, when you just rush in. Also, your knuckles firm but briefly brush against the wood of the door, so there is a fraction of a moment for him to react to it.

When you have entered, you swiftly press the door shut again, locking it behind your back and just stand there for a moment. Your hands behind your back, your fingers around the cooling metal of the door knob. Your eyes directed at Randall, as his are at you.

The moment you have entered, a shrug had gone through him. The brief knock hadn't given him much time — more a little heart attack instead of a warning. Blood and heart in motion.

His expression is a startled one and his open palms rest flat on the table, the tips pressing into the softer desk mat. His body in a straight posture as always. Caught by surprise Randall Brown can be detected as a nervous creature when one knows at what signs to look at.

His green-blue eyes are directed at you. Everyone else he would have scolded by now. Had pointed out such rude behaviour. Not loud or roaring, more with a silent advice. Randall knows how to frighten a man (seldom a woman because reasons). With a whisper more as with an outburst.

Not with you. You are allowed and so he relaxes when he has fully grasped it is you.

His breath is going flat now. He is expectant. Nervous and awaiting. There is something in his eyes, there behind the thick frames, that communicates with you.

That he likes it. The way you have invaded his privacy has interrupted his work, his thoughts. How you didn’t care what he was working on. If it was important or urgent — or both.

He likes it not only because he loves you because you have a relationship, but because it is the start of something different. With ripping open the door, you have ripped the Head of News out of the routine.

For a moment you forget yourself, and your lips twitch into a grin, your tongue flickers out, scratches against your teeth, before you regain composer again. Making a stern face. You learned from the best making one while you feel all excited, amused and aroused inside.

You give the moment another second of silence before you say short, “Up!”

Not loud but firm, and Randall stands up. Without question and hesitation. His mien is as usual. Strict. His hands slide over the surface of the desk, his fingertips touching the edge before they finally disconnect from it.

Stepping closer you examine him. As usual, he wears a nice suit, dark blue, your favourite. Three pieces of course. His tie is blue too with very small white dots on it. His haircut is fresh; he had it cut a few days ago, and on his glasses is not one dirty spot.

You motion him over with a gesture, a turn of your head, to his sofa with no words. He knows the procedure and shuffles from between his chair and the desk.

You follow him, watching him move. A bit lanky, but straight-lined he steps up to the sofa and turns so that his calves touch the edge of the expensive leather sofa. Expectant eyes stare down at you, awaiting in silence your next move.

You step closer, raising your hands, and they land gently on his chest. Your flat palms are slowly moving over the fabric, feeling out the soft cotton. Inhaling deeply you take in his scent, never breaking the eye contact. A mix of aftershave and him, something you never get tired of.

“Sit,” you say, your hands underlining your gentle spoken command with a little pressing down.

So Randall comes down, with a soft thud, his hand landing left and right from him, looking up at you.

This is always the hardest part for you. Taking your time. Almost impossible with Randall looking at you like this. It was something you had to learn. Savouring it. Making him wait – making yourself wait. Because the only thing you want to do now is to jump in his lap and kiss him. Do things to him, because he does things to you.

It had taken a few attempts to find out the right amount of time, a good mix of too fast and too slow. Each time you got better, and as closer, as you came to the perfect time, the things you both would soon do became more wonderful.

Randall is not moving, the only sign he is in uproar is his chest heaving faster as usual. And his front knuckles of his hands that slightly curl around the edge of the sofa that are white by now.

A minute goes by in which you just adore him. His prominent eyebrows, the nose that looks in its profile so Roman that you once gave him an old coin with the profile of an old Roman emperor, as a present, telling him he reminded you of him. His soft, thin lips. Kissable. His greenish eyes with the hint of blue and some Hazle spots. Curious at the moment, but behind a black frame.

You like his glasses; they have something admirable sexy, but it's a shame his eyes have to hide behind the thick frame. Not that they hadn't any expression. Randall Brown’s eyes have such expression nothing could retain them.

A magical mix of vulnerability and piercingly dangerous. He always had been able to express a predator and prey - at the same time sometimes even.

With tilting your head, you finally bring some motion into the game before slowly raising your hand. The outside of your fingers touching his cheek, barely moving against it but with the touch Randall's eyes fall close and he carefully leans in.

Again it has to be the right amount - of pressure this time, or, he knows, you'll retreat again.

The first time you did this he had covered yours with his hand. Natural. But at that moment, you had taken your hand away without a thought. His expression afterwards had hurt you to the bone. Both of you had to find a position still in that game.

Now the rules, the yes and no's, in which you both have found ease and pleasure were settled. Where you find satisfaction.

It is already late and so you feel a slight scruff against your hand, nothing you mind. Once you didn't allow him to shave for a week. A holiday and you remember in joy his widening eyes when telling him, only to be replaced days later by sensational kisses - you couldn't get your hand of Randall with a beard. Since then he dares you with letting grow a beard when sharing holidays with you.

Your hand brushes over his forehead right into his hair. It’s thick and full of product, so his head tilts back with your firm motion, his eyes still closed.

A gasp escapes him, and that is the moment, like a signal. Your other hand gathers your skirt up, just high enough so you can come down straddling his legs, sit in his lap.

Your middle close to his crotch but not yet touching. One hand at the back of his head, curling in his neck hair. The other on his cheek you wait till he opens his eyes again.

You are close to just lean in and kiss him. Instead — holding yourself back — you take your hands off him, and place your fingertips against the frame of his specs, gently removing them. Folding the frame, you hang his glasses into your cleavage, Randall watching you intently.

You know how careful he always is with his specs. He has an elegant, expensive leather case for it in which he places them overnight — when he is not too busy to kiss you senseless. When holding you close, both arms wrapped around you, only have a second time to get the specs off his nose "throwing" them onto the next more or less safe place. Sometimes love and lust is everything, even defying Randall's nagging OCD. It's good you both can't get enough of each other.

Next, you place a single finger on his mouth as if you would hush him. Not that he had uttered a single syllable by now. He would, oh he would — later.

Again it's his eyes that betray him. It's always the eyes, but only when one is able to read them what is incredibly hard with Randall Brown. Not that you are an expert, but better as the most. Also, it had taken its time - as with everything with him.

Now you read in them that he would like to taste the tip of your finger, flick his tongue over your salty skin, gently suck at it, but he holds back. Needs too, you wouldn't allow him. Instead, you now use your thumb brushing it over his mouth, tracing the thin line of lips.

Of course, Randall can read in your eyes too — the want to press yours to his. In need to just demand access with your tongue, to make him moan into your mouth, but like him, you have to hold back. There are rules. For both of you.

He is still not touching you, his hands — now with a little more ease rest aside him. Waiting. Who could have thought that waiting could be all that fun?

Your thumb gets joined by the rest of your hand cupping his cheek. The other hand taking care of the other side. Holding his face now, you give the moment a hum and a soft smile. Your way of telling him that you like him this way. So calm on the outside but all expecting on the inside with that touch of submission that has nothing to do with the usual games others play.

Yes, you ordered him, and he does as told but that's all. There the kink stops. You have developed your own way of approaching each other in special moments.

Taking one hand away you break the cycle. Earning a twitch with one of his eyebrows for it, when you place your palm against his chest, there where his heart beats underneath all the fabric.

His heart hammers hard in his chest and it amazes you to just feel that beat, aware it copies the pace of yours.

Bringing your hand back to his cheek you shuffle a bit more forward in his lap. Half an inch. Lowering your head down to his lips, you linger there for a bit before there is the barest of touches. Skin brushing against skin, like a soft breeze.

It sends a shiver through you and makes Randall tense for a second. His eyes closed by now, yours still open, watching him gasp over the contact.

Again your brush with your lips over his, this time, closer, firmer. You can’t hold back, and capture his lower lip with a gentle suckling, your eyes fall shut, it’s impossible to hold them open anymore.

For the moment you don’t need your vision, you just want to feel him, his body heat radiating against you. His scent crawling into your nose, making you all dizzy and his little whimper when you release his lip only to catch them between your teeth again. His body leans in, not too much but enough to tell you how he longs your nearness.

The barrier that had hold you back is now crumbling away, and you kiss him eager by now, your hands holding his face in place, sucking at his lips without letting your tongue tease him. Just lips against lips, capturing his soft mouth, giving little hums and bites. Sucking first unobtrusive, but with every second more greedy. It’s an overacting. Randall is answering your kisses.

Tilting your head from the left to the right, again and again — smacking sounds filling the silence of the room — as if you haven’t seen him for years. It’s a desperate thing, and you are. You always are with Randall.

You don’t know why you only know there was no one ever before, you wanted to kiss so badly — day and night. Every time you look at him. At work. At home. In the streets. If he is looking at you or not. The feeling is just there. One day it’s a silent whisper, on others it’s like someone is pushing you into his direction. There is a word for it; you read about it somewhere. Basorexia. You like having it.

You lick over his upper lip, stopping your kiss without separating from him. Your noses touching, your breath hitching against his chin, reflecting back to you. His breathing has stopped breathing, unsure what you expect from him, and so you lick a second time and this time he knows and slowly opens his mouth for you, his tongue lingering there. Resting against his lower lip.

He is offering, and you take it, licking his tongue. Covering his open mouth, pressing him back with your passionate kiss. Almost too forcefully, too eager, and he has to move his hands, so you both won’t crash against the wall behind him. You can’t but laugh into his mouth over the moment, finding him look at you with amused wrinkles around his eyes.

“Hold me,” you breathe, and before the last syllable is spoken, his hands fling around your body.

One hand sprawling over your back, the other shoved into your hair, holding the back of your head he moans into your mouth. Your tongues tease each other, licking off the taste.

Randall tastes like soda water with a faint whiff of coffee, and you probably taste like peppermint tea, as you had one earlier.

By now you can’t ignore that he is growing hard under you. He is aroused and he makes no secret out of it, just pulls you in. Makes you close the last inch between you and him, and while he starts kissing your chin, your jugular and lets his lips travel down to the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, your hips tilt, grinding against his crotch. A friction sending waves of pleasure through you.

A low murmur escaped his mouth and a short gasp of yours when his teeth sink into the muscles of your shoulder. A gentle bite, it won’t leave a mark, it’s just a reminder who you belong to.

Randall likes to have things in order. Not only pencils and papers, but also his love life. His partner. He is not someone for having multiple affairs, never had been. A loner, looking for the right woman, and it was your luck he found you. Maybe because you never had thought about the possibility.

Yes, he had been nice, but he had been your boss, in weeks you had only seen him twice and then you’ve seen him at the dinner party. One thing came to another and from there on you only had eyes for him and he for you.

It’s a secret — of course — you both being together. The policy of The Hour doesn’t allow relationships.

Actually, there are two couples. A secret too, but Randall knows because a Randall Brown knows everything, but he does not care, as long as work goes its way and there are no problems. Why ruin a relationship because of a stupid rule? But he is the Head of News; officially he has to stick to the rules.

So by day, you just work for him, on the same floor, a mix of his secretary and running the cultural desk. One of the smaller departments. It’s not politics or economy, but those were never your departments. You always liked the spirit that hung over the culture desk. You like the work, and you like working for Randall, you learn a lot from him.

No one is suspicious of you two, and why should they? You learned to roll your eyes about Randall in public, when talking with your colleagues and complain about him — as every good worker would about their boss — just the right amount.

People know about his tics, his need for lines, for being tidy — some even fear him. Some ask how you can work for him? If it isn’t unnerving? Sometimes, you answer, but the truth is, it isn’t. You work around his tics, and know what makes him happy. How to distract him, if there is a moment he feels on the edge because of some stain on the floor or an askew chair in a meeting.

So by day, you are just two people working with each other, — excluding shared kisses behind closed doors — and at night you both seduce each other and he shags you sometimes gentle, sometimes a little harder against the mattress till you come undone with him.

You want him. Right there in the office, on the Freudian couch, and there is no time to lose. Your hands slip between your bodies, fumbling the button of his trousers open. Randall helps you by leaning back a bit and stretching his upper body. Making it harder for you at the same time, by kissing you deeper and harder as before.

It’s him teasing you, knowing it will distract you, but when there is one thing you can’t, it’s stopping him kissing you. He is too delicious and you have mastered before, and so after a minute of fumbling, you have his trousers open, and your hand slips under the waistband of his boxer briefs freeing him.

The groan he gives is more a dark rumbling, when your hand comes around his erection, stroking him once — downwards only to hold him tight in position. He is wet, slick with pre-cum and so very hard. You always wondered how other men his age would do. You have no comparison, and only know when it comes to intimacy between you and him, Randall seems to be blessed. Not once he wasn’t ready for you, not once he had declined an offer from you, not once he had disappointed you.

Randall is a skilled lover; he knows how to handle you, how to touch you just the right way to make you squirm and shiver, to get you to the edge with his tongue and fingers — only to leave you begging for more — for him inside of you.

This time, it will be him who has to beg, that you know, and so does he, but for now you have mercy as much with him, as with yourself. The fire inside of you is not only flickering it is blazing, and filling you with hot waves and lusty feelings.

Pressing your forehead against his, you look into his eyes. The greenish, blue tone now shines dark, full of desire.

Oh, you can only imagine what he would like to do to you if you would whisper the demand of taking charge into his ear. Probably flip you over, or press you against his desk, but it is not his turn. Next time — maybe.

Your hands slide further south, cupping his privates, squeezing them. It gives you the delight of seeing him whimper under you. Mouth hanging open, in desperate need to keep his eyes from falling shut, but a second gentle squeeze, with a turn of one finger that lays around the base of his length, lets him not only moan in a low, beautiful pitch, also makes his eyes surrender.

To bring him back to the now, you kiss him hard, and with so much verve it hurts for a second, but it makes Randall grab you by your waist, helping you to hold the balance you while you bring yourself over him. You don’t wear any panties; you have taken them off in your office earlier, shoving them into your purse, before coming to his. It makes things a little easier.

Slowly you lower yourself, till you feel the tip of his brush against your entrance. You have simmered with excitement for this moment all day long. It was always something extraordinary to make him have you in the office. In his office.

You remember the first time it had happened, all unintentional, in the late evening, when everybody had gone home.

You and Randall had to go over some files for the next day, and for some reason, his fiddling with some files had made you extremely nervous that day, and so you just told him to leave it be.

“Just sit there, will you,” you had commanded, and to your and probably his own surprise he had obeyed, sitting down, staring at you till you had finished sorting.

Then you had looked at him, the situation suddenly all heated up, and in silent agreement, you had just stepped up to him, jumped into his lap and had started kissing him. And because he hadn’t been able to give you the right attention, you had broken the kiss, cocking an eyebrow at him, “The door?” it had been unlocked.

“The door,” he had smiled at you, lifting you out of his lap, only to lock it and then he came back, pressing you into the soft leather, making quickly up for the little interruption with desiring kisses.

And because you both couldn’t contain yourself, one thing had lead to another and one piece of clothes after another had landed on the floor and you ended up making love there. From there on you kept the location on the menu.

Both your faces almost pressed together, with open mouth staring at each other, your breath hitching, colliding and mixing up with each other, Randall’s hand steadying you, you lower yourself, making him sink into you.

A satisfying gasp escapes you before you bite your lower lip, never leaving Randall out of your sight, and so never does he, shuddering under the intense feeling of you around him. His eyes are darkening and shining in delight and wonder every time you two become one. The love for you, it’s all in his eyes, and because you never can get over it, that’s where you kiss him. Languid, soft and very passionate, using the moment to get used to it before you slowly start rocking your hips in a slow rhythm.

Randall's hand come around your back. Holding you close, one wandering over your spine the other tilting your head gently so he can place gentle kisses into the crook of your neck.

Then there is suddenly a soft groan, not of pleasure but of frustration, and you sense something is not right, "What?" it doesn't make you stop your motions and it also doesn't make Randall's stop enjoying them.

"I think I have a phone conference in twenty minutes," he nibbles your flesh while rocking with your moves.

"No, you don't," you smile against his ear, "I gave them a call, telling you had an important meeting you couldn't postpone."

His hands slide over your sides up to your face, "What would I do without you?" his hips buck up sending a shiver through you before he kisses you deep.

"Probably have that phone conference," you smirk mischievously before raising your hips only to sink hard back into his lap.

You take his glasses out of your neckline placing it aside, before pressing yourself hard against his front, your hips moving now faster and harder. Randall joins your rhythm, his hands holding you by your hip bones, pressing your hard against him.

You both pant and groan, feeling your climax rise. A fire, almost a frenzy, about to become an explosion.

"Love," he whispers hoarse, signalling he is so close to falling apart.

With the warning you stop your motions, your hands around his shoulders and neck, breathing in his hot gasps. It makes him groan long and slow, but before he can say something you catch his mouth, kissing him. Leisurely and deep. Randall’s hand slowly shove up your spine, till he can cup the back of your head, gently. Unnerving, but you know he wants nothing more as to come for you.

“Beg me,” you whisper, breaking the kiss when your lungs tell you to breathe again, and then you lean in kissing him, not allowing him to speak. Begging can be done without words, with kisses, little touches and Randall is an expert in something like that.

His hands wander back down, over your sides, to your upper thighs, shoving under your skirt, till his long warm fingers can cup your bottom, digging slowly into your flesh and pressing you into him. Such an intense feeling, him inside you moving just a little, but enough to send a spark through your body.

His mouth is kissing along your pulse now, “Please,” his brogue vibrates against your throat.

How could you decline him this? So you take one of his hands and shove it under your skirt, between you both, placing his thumb onto your sensitive centre and Randall knows what to do, making little circles while his mouth nips at your neck and your shoulders. Making you squirm and gasp, making your inner muscles clench and when you feel the warmth grow hotter, you start to move your hips again. First slow, a mix of teasing and getting warm, then more intense. Raising yourself, making him slide in and out of you, while you both feel the bursting feeling grow and come to the point of no return.

He gasps and pants into the crook of your neck, while you whisper how good he feels, how good this feels — him about to come.

And in the end, it's only, "Randall... Ran-" your head falls back, caught by his hand when warmth paces suddenly through you. An explosion of feelings. And aside your body tenses and every muscle in you shudders and clenches almost violently, it’s a wonderful release. Uncontrollably a long groan escapes you while sheer luck and pleasure runs through your veins makes you die for limited seconds.

Your lover follows by the sigh of you, pushing his hip with a few last jolts against you, to come deep inside of you, holding you so hard by your waist you are sure it will leave marks. But you don't care because he owns you and you would wear them proudly in sight for everyone if you need to.

Being over the first wave of your orgasm you lean forward capturing Randall's lips for a hungry kiss while he rides his waves of pleasure and it is to you as if this intensifies the warm bubbling sensation inside the both of you.

If Randall would have been a younger version of himself he might had dared to jump up with you, your legs around his hips tumbling forward against the wall or the door to shag you there into oblivion.

The thought is tingling, but you don't need a cold wall against your back and he already does the oblivion part very good.

The room buzzes. With heat, with the scent of sex. Filled with gasps and groans, little whispers of love and adoration. The sun is about to go down and the light is dim now inside the room. Randall’s lamp on his desk is illuminating the scene of you both in soft light, clinging to each other, panting while you both come slowly down from your high.

You smile against his cheek, before leaning down, to get his glasses from the sofa, you have placed there earlier.

Looking at you with a shy smirk, and glassy eyes, little amused wrinkles around them, Randall watches you put his specs back onto his nose. You also check his hair and shove some rebellious curls back into form, unable to wash away the loopy grin on your face.

His hands still caress your backside, and when you clench your inner muscles one more time, a shrug goes through him, and he needs to close his eyes for a second, about to chuckle under pleasant pain.

You tug Randall’s handkerchief out of his breast pocket. “Mister Brown,” you then raise your hip, parting from him with a last gasp, placing the fabric between your legs. Sex is not only beautiful but also a matter of sticky, sweaty and certain liquids.

Randall smirks, helping you out of his lap, “Miss.”

He is out of breath, unable to take his eyes off you, in which you can see the love and the desire for you. And therefore, half bowing in front of him, you give him a last kiss full of love, before saying, “You have a conference in an hour at home — don’t miss it.”

“I’d never dare,” he licks his lower lip, knowing you’ll wait for him later outside, so he only has to drive around the corner picking you up.

And when you are home, he’ll tell you how much he loves you and he will cook something quick before taking a shower with you. Just kissing, long and lovingly, while the hot water washes over you both. Afterwards, you both will fall into his king size bed, and when you are both up for it and have enough energy left from a long hard day in the office, Randall will make love to you. All tender and slow, and whisper into your ear how much he loves you. Or you just snuggle against each other — falling asleep.

And that’s the story of you and Randall Brown having the most sensational work meeting ever...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a 100% pleased with it, but right now nothing more is into it. sorry.
> 
> In case, I have another idea... I'll update...Please review and big thanks for the read!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you all know where to go and to grab a cold shower in case you need one ;). When you liked what you read, please consider a kudo or a comment, I would love to read something from you!
> 
> Thank you and till the next fic.


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